


And I might do it again

by Bitterblue



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterblue/pseuds/Bitterblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cophine, coffee shop au. Delphine really, really detests open mic nights at the coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I might do it again

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user gerardwho, who requested Cophine and a ukulele.

Open mic night is, probably, the worst thing in the universe.

It draws in a rowdy crowd on Friday nights, when Delphine would rather be anywhere but at work—but, well, there is the whole  _rent_  business, so she comes and serves lattes and cappuccinos to students. They fill the chairs and spill over the worn, patched couches. Delphine does not like them any more as a barista than she does as a TA.

America was supposed to be a great adventure. Graduate school, working steadily towards the PhD she's wanted since she was nine and first learned about white blood cells and the basics of immunology, was supposed to be exciting. Working part-time in a coffee shop just off campus to supplement her funding from teaching and TAing sounded glamorous, like the start of a movie. Pretty young PhD student meets dashing professor while serving them coffee, they're assigned as her advisor, forbidden love, the  _works_.

Mostly, she just can't quite get the smell of coffee out of her hair.

It's the third week of a new school year, and the Minnesota summer is already starting to fade. The kids—she can't help but think of them as kids, when she recognizes a few already as her own students—wander into the shop in pairs and trios, ordering the cheapest drinks before snagging tables. Open mic night is an event. Open mic night is a  _tradition_. She's heard that some of the singers and half-formed bands that have played here have gone on to careers that, if not illustrious, are at least stable and involve income. It's just a pity the others all get up and perform, too.

Out of the corner of her eye, Delphine notices a familiar face—prim, perfect bangs, ponytail, and a half-decent voice—take the mic for the first performance, and sighs. It's going to be a musical theatre sort of night, then. She can't help but notice that her coworker at the till, a woman Delphine is not  _completely_  sure experiences human emotion and who usually mans the cash when they're on shift together purely because Delphine is terrified to let her near the milk steamer, winces as musical theatre girl starts in on "Memory," a hair shy of on-key. It's weirdly satisfying, seeing something perturb Rachel.

She falls into the rhythm of the work easily, pulling shots, frothing milk, pumping disgusting amounts of chocolate into cups, and her mind wanders. She has papers to write, at least one to finish before the weekend is over, and she'll be getting work to mark next week. There is labwork to be done. She's going to need to find at least one assistant—preferably an undergrad that will do work for tutoring or something, because her grant funding isn't in yet and she can't pay. There was something she wanted to go to, too, a guest lecture about self-directed evolution—wanky, probably, but it wouldn't hurt to listen. Immunology involves a lot of fast, startling leaps in evolution, it might be relevant to her work.

A short girl with glasses, a beanie, and an absolutely wicked grin wanders up to the counter during a lull (the prim girl seems to be trying to pull a protesting, gangly boy a few years her junior up onto the stage with her), eyeing first Rachel at the till and then Delphine at the coffee machine. Delphine's used to impertinent looks from undergrads, but this feels less sleazy and more  _warm_ , which makes no sense at all. The girl's canines glint a little as she orders, "The  _biggest_  soy chai latte you can make, please." She smiles again, a self-deprecating twist of her mouth, "I can't have coffee this late or I'll be up all night  _again_. And, I mean, I  _could_  stay up all night, but without a reason that's just going to end with me on tumblr reblogging cat gifs." Her smile is still wicked, as if daring Delphine to give her other reasons to stay up.

Rachel's face remains impassive as she takes cash and returns change (which  _plinks_  into the tip jar, much to Delphine's appreciation), but Delphine can't help but return her smile, a little wicked, herself.

"A name for your order?" Rachel asks, sharpie at the ready, small vat of a cup in her other hand.

"Cosima," she says, still looking at Delphine. "I'm Cosima."

Delphine really hopes the lowered lights are hiding the burning in her cheeks. Pretty girls have not made a habit of flirting with her in Minnesota. She has no defenses prepared. Cosima steps closer to the coffee machine, leaning on the bar. "Delphine," she reads from the name tag pinned to her apron ( _do not think about her looking at your chest, do not, do not do it_ ). Delphine isn't sure she's ever heard anyone drawl her name like that, a slow spread of syllables in a surprisingly passable accent. "Your name's pretty. Like you." If she wasn't blushing before, she  _must_  be now.

With a stammery "Thank you?" she makes the drink quickly, setting it on the counter, and turns away to clean. Inexplicably cute undergrads are probably not a good thing to be thinking about at work. Or, ever. Probably ever.

When she turns back to say something—an apology? for failing to flirt back?—the girl and her bucket of chai are gone into the crowd. Another few people rotate through the mic, performing a weird mix of soulful acoustic guitar covers of gangster rap songs, more musical theatre (though they move away from Cats, which is a miracle sent straight from the god she does not believe in to Delphine's ears), and one very weird rendition of "Sugar, Sugar." Delphine takes her break, slipping into the closet of a backroom and enjoying the relative quiet for a few minutes.

When she emerges to let Rachel stand silently and stare at the wall, or whatever it is she does on her breaks, it's in the middle of another couple of people negotiating the mic. Rachel disappears, and the flirt with the glasses— _Cosima_ —ends up the victor. Delphine can  _feel_  whatever little fluttery crush she might have been repressing wither and die. Open mic night is an  _abomination_.

Cosima settles a ukulele in her lap, sitting on a stool that leaves her feet swinging in the air until she finds the rungs to rest them upon, then adjusts the mic. She grins towards the bar, making brief eye contact with Delphine, then begins to play.

She's surprisingly good, plucking out a little melody that makes a few of the kids cheer and laugh, half the crowd joining in by the last, "Adventure time!" A traitorous part of her thinks,  _well, maybe participation in open mic night doesn't have to be a dealbreaker. Not if she's good_ _._  And she's cute, all open smile and weirdly assembled collection of print clothing that Delphine is definitely not thinking about piled together on the floor, that grey and lime beanie included.

As if she's heard her thinking—or noticed her looking—Cosima grins and tugs the beanie off, revealing very short hair, dyed a deep, intense forest green. Musical theatre girl shrieks, "What did you  _do_  to your  _hair_ , Cosima?" Delphine wonders how they know each other. She wonders at the little spark of jealousy. This is  _not_  how her coffee shop romance was supposed to go.

Cosima, for her part, just shrugs, speaking into the mic. "I thought I'd try something new. Maybe I can try a few more new things." She's definitely looking at Delphine. Delphine is definitely not looking back. She toys with the coffee machine, wondering if it's too early to clean it for the night. That could eat up at least ten minutes of her shift. "Anyway, uh, I guess I can do one more before it's someone else's turn."

Rachel is taking  _forever_  on that break.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, Cosima resettles the uke in her lap and plucks at a couple of strings before starting to sing again. It isn't that her voice is outstanding, but it's hard not to be flustered when she's beaming around the words at Delphine. "Jenny came over and told me about Brad," she starts. The tune is familiar, one of the songs that has ended up on the shop's playlist once or a dozen times. She knows what's coming, and watches Cosima, leaning against the empty bar. Her cheeks might still be pink, but Delphine is smiling.

"I kissed a girl for the first time. I kissed a girl, and I might do it again."

Delphine mentally revises all of her opinions about open mic night.

Cosima finishes the song to polite applause (and a little genuinely enthusiastic cheering from her friends) and hops off the stool. She sets the ukulele down as a few more people move to fill the open mic void, twisting her way through the crowd and back to the bar.

"Hey," she says, tucking her hands into the pack pockets of her pants. "Sorry for making it awkward? Earlier? By saying you're hot. I mean,  _you are_. You definitely are. But I don't want to make it weird for you where you work."

It isn't what she'd been expecting, and Delphine feels her smile soften from something wolfish into genuine, surprised pleasure. "I didn't mind. But thank you, anyway," she admits.

Cosima's eyes light up. "Would you maybe want to come hang out with us, then? Us being me, Alison, Felix—you know Alison, right, she comes here and does weird musical theatre numbers all the time?—and a couple of others." Delphine mentally files away names to go with faces as Cosima speaks, half-distracted by the sweep of her hands, slipped back out of her pockets to gesture in the space between them. "When do you get off work?"

"When we close."

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense, sorry. Um. But is that a yes?"

She considers only briefly. Undergraduate, probably. Participates in open mic night. Devastatingly cute and apparently very into her. Sings about bisexual girls. "Yes. Okay."

The sound of Rachel's snort from next to her pulls her attention away from Cosima's excited dance. Delphine has no idea how long she's been standing there listening, and her face is blank—no, not quite. Faintly amused. "If you think I'd let you leave early and do the cleaning myself, you are mistaken."

"I'll wait for you after close," Cosima promises, and then slips back to her friends. Delphine looks dazedly after her, sighs wistfully, and begins to dismantle the coffee machine.

The place is  _spotless_  when she steps outside, a full five minutes after Rachel herself goes home for the night. Cosima isn't immediately in sight, and for a moment Delphine is surprised at how disappointed she is, but then one of the shadows peels itself off the wall and steps into the glow of the street lamp with a wave. Her hat is back on, though the ukulele is nowhere in sight.

"It's just me," she says as Delphine turns back to the door and locks it. "Everyone else bailed, but they're headed to Felix's place if you still wanted to come over and hang out." She sounds less sure, more hopeful, than before. It makes Delphine's heart do little flips.

"I wouldn't mind," she says, turning back to face her and stepping away from the building, "actually talking to you."

Cosima laughs, slightly sheepish, "Yeah, I've kind of been staring at the back of your head in Genetics since the start of the semester." They fall into a comfortable pace, Cosima bumping into Delphine's shoulder intermittently as they walk—possibly accidentally, though she isn't sure.

"You're not an undergrad?" She can't help the surprise, and Cosima laughs again.

"Is that why you were all over the place with the flirting and not flirting? You thought I was some eighteen year old hitting on you?"

"Well…"

"Rest assured, I am  _not eighteen_. I'm seventeen." She starts to laugh again, taking Delphine by the arm and then sliding her hand down until their fingers tangle together. "Joking. I'm joking. I'm an adult, I'm enrolled in that preliminary masters on the way to a PhD thing. Evo devo."

Delphine doesn't mind having her hand held in the least. She squeezes a little, just in case Cosima is inclined to let go. "You used to have dreadlocks," she realizes. "I've seen you once or twice. I'm doing immunology." It's easy to fall into small talk about classes as they walk, hands swinging together, Cosima's laughter infectious.

After a short walk, Cosima pulls them to a stop outside of a run-down looking building. "This is Felix's place, if you still wanted to come up?"

"Okay," Delphine says, but doesn't move. Cosima raises her eyebrows, squeezing her hand.

"You sure?"

It isn't graceful, but it's perfect anyway. Delphine leans down, closing the space between them, and presses her mouth to Cosima's, brief and warm and a little off centre. She can feel Cosima still laughing into the kiss even as she steps closer into the arch of Delphine's body, their hands still clasped.

Open mic night might be the best thing that's happened since she moved here.


End file.
